


Eagle's Peak

by Arcane_Light



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:03:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcane_Light/pseuds/Arcane_Light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short insertion of an additional house into the world of Westeros. Lord Commander Jon Snow and his sister Sansa Stark seek out the allegiance of a relatively unknown northern house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eagle's Peak

“When did you last see him,” Sansa asked, her crimson braid trailing down her back as she swayed atop her mount. “This Lenrel?” 

Jon thought. It had been years, long before he had left for The Watch. House Dyrus had long been a faithful vassal of the North, even during Robert’s Rebellion when they had sent a thousand of their soldiers to pelt the battlefields with their arrows, and centuries before when their forbearers had served the first of the Starks and helped to tame the wilds. Jon had only ever visited Eagle’s Peak thrice with Lord Stark and Robb. Lord Ker’s young son had been kind, though a bit shy, something Jon recognized intimately. 

“If it’s been that long,” Sansa interrupted, “perhaps we were foolish to come.”

“We need the Dyruses,” Jon said, and Sansa glanced sidelong at him. “They’re the finest marksmen in Westeros. With them on our side, we’ll surely win the long fight.” 

Sansa huffed, “All fights are long.”

“You know what I mean,” he scowled at her. 

The ride to Eagle’s Peak was shorter than most, highlighting even more so Ramsey Bolton’s hesitance to approach the Eagle Lords. Loyal to Winterfell, within reach, and holding marksmen that would put the King’s Guard to shame, it seemed an obvious stop for Ramsey as he swept through the houses of the North, demanding loyalty as he went. Yet it remained untouched. One could blame the deadly steep climb to the stronghold itself, and Jon was more than inclined to believe that Ramsey couldn’t stomach the height, but the truth lay in the Dyruses themselves. A mystery surrounded them, the likes of which were unmatched in Westeros, for none had truly seen the eagle skies. 

Eagle’s Peak rose before them, piercing the sky with clean teeth, and all around crept the thick brush of the Wolfswood. Though Winterfell lay just on the other side, though it should feel like home, Jon shied from the trees. This was not Winterfell, but it was the North and he would not be afraid here. The climb to the top was precariously steep and more than once they stopped for a startled horse, opting in the end to lead them by the bit around edge and curl. At last they reached the keep, turning one final corner to be met by a great iron gate, sharp mountains and trees bent into its design and sprinkled with studs of soaring eagles. 

They held. The gates should not be closed. Lord Dyrus had accepted their inquiry. Still they stood like beggars at the door, and Jon felt what he was. Perhaps Sansa was right and the Lord of Eagle’s Peak would turn them away without even a word. 

Voices shouted inside the great stone walls and the gate opened, its moans and growls rumbling the cliff beneath their feet. The horses paced and stomped, eager to be free of the oblivion at their backs, and raced inside almost faster than his men, but Jon and Sansa came through last and the gate closed behind them with an echoing thud. 

The diminutive size of their party was quickly evident as he, Sansa, Ser Davos, and the handful of brothers stood exposed at the center of the courtyard, surrounded on all sides by peaked towers and men perched like eagles. A stablehand walked calmly forward and took their mounts, leading them aside to a trough, and another led them forward to stand before the great doors of House Dyrus.

Before them stood Lord Lenrel and a lady Jon recognized as his sister, Lyra. They were as twin pillars draped in black, framed by great emerald tipped trees on either side and the ragged mountains behind, and Jon saw vaguely dash across his eyes a memory of fluttering feathers and crisp air. 

“Lord Lenrel,” he bowed his head. “Thank you for seeing us.” 

Silence whipped across the skies as two pairs of eyes, one dark and one crisp blue as the sky, regarded their party coolly. Jon cleared his throat.

“Lady Lyra,” he turned and bowed his head to the dark-haired lady standing beside Lord Lenrel. “We did not think to see you here. We thought you in Stonehold.” 

“My husband is perfectly capable of holding his own,” Lady Lyra replied, her voice swift and smooth as the wind. Jon gripped the leather of his glove as his gaze faltered. “And Eagle’s Peak is my home,” she continued, “as it always will be.” He could feel Sansa shift beside him, her chin tilting ever so slightly up as it did when she felt pleased. Davos cleared his throat and took a small step forward.

“Ser Davos Seaworth, your lordship,” he bowed his head, “my lady. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you, but I once met your father, Lord Ker, in Seagard. He was a good and honest fellow.” Again, silence swept the courtyard. There was an eagle carved into the stone beneath Jon’s feet and he slowly removed his toed boot from its wing. 

“Lord Lenrel,” he began, “if I may, there are important matters that -”

The winds gusted around them and filled the courtyard with a flurry of leaves and twigs. Jon squinted his eyes against the barrage and Sansa held a cloaked sleeve to shield her face, and when the winds settled neither Lenrel nor Lyra had moved, nor the men perched across the keep, as if they had not even faltered. For a moment, Lady Lyra’s gaze broke and she looked away from the Lord Commander’s party, only to return it a second later as a dark shadow flashed across the cobblestones. She outstretched her arm stiff and firm as a massive eagle landed upon it. The creature looked to weigh near fifteen pounds, but she held it as if no more than a feather.

She scratched the bird beneath its curved beak and took a slip of paper from the tie at its foot. The wing beats flustered Lady Lyra’s hair and skirts, but she paid no mind as it flew gently away and perched atop a nearby railing. She unrolled the paper, read it, and handed it to her brother, all the while her eagle watched Jon and his party with careful consideration. Lord Lenrel ran his thumb over the small slip and met his sister’s gaze. As one their eyes flashed forward. 

“House Glover has rejected you,” Lenrel finally spoke, his voice so quiet it was nearly lost to the winds, but its sting was clear and sharp. Jon stood still at the center of the courtyard, giving a short glance to Davos at his side. The old knight pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels. 

“We know why you are here, Jon Snow,” Lyra declared, “with your lady sister and your onion knight and brothers black. Would it comfort you to know that Ramsey Bolton has yet to call upon us?” 

“Indeed, it does, my lady,” he responded. “Dyrus and Stark have been loyal allies for centuries.”

“As were the Umbers,” she replied, “and the Karstarks.” Jon forced a swallow and gripped his gloved hand, calculating how quickly they could retreat if the eagles rejected them. But the Lady Lyra’s expression shifted and her chin tipped slightly up as she spoke, “Fools, the lot of them.”  
Jon released the breath he’d held since they had first entered the eagle’s keep and looked to Sansa, who was locked tightly with Lady Lyra, both wearing near undetectable curls on their lips. 

“I hear Bear Island has answered the call,” Lenrel said, passing the slip to his sister who tossed it to the wind. For the first time, the Eagle Lord smiled at Jon. “Lyanna Mormont would tear this peak down with her _bear_ hands if she heard we had rejected.” Jon smiled back.

“It’s best not to upset her.”

They were led inside, away from the howling of the coming storm, and given rooms near the sibling masters. Not just Jon and Sansa, but Ser Davos and the brothers as well. Fine rooms with thick furs and deep hearths where they could rest their feet and aching souls. They could not stay long. Jon had not planned to stay even the night, to ride out as soon as House Dyrus’s loyalty was claimed, but the storm had come swift and sudden and Lord Lenrel advised against a quick departure, lest they wish to be thrown from the peaks. So here Jon sat with his boots by the fire and dinner brewing in the banquet hall. For a moment he could rest. 

~*~

Sansa paced her room. Jon was being foolish. They needed more men. Ramsey had six thousand at his disposal, and even with Dyrus, Mormont, Hornwood, Mazin, and Free Folk they had hardly three. They would need a dozen more of these tiny houses to chance for even a thread of hope and here they sat, bolted in by wind and rain. A waste of time. Sansa threw on her cloak and strode past the servants at her door. They did not speak a word as she left, save to offer direction to the main hall. Sansa went the other way. 

Eagle’s Peak should have shook with the rage of the blowing storm, but there was not a sign to be seen inside its halls that the skies were tearing apart. The walls stood firm, the windows firmly latched, and torches lit warmly at every step, and at every turn the image of feathers and eagles and stretching skies. Sansa looked up and saw the curved ceiling above etched with clouds and a faded blue. She walked for several lengths before coming to a stairwell, the reaches of which could not be seen as it disappeared far above, save for the few spots of light from sprinkled torches. She grabbed one and began her ascent. 

The stairwell was thick across as six men tall and the steps were smoothly worn, a railing along the curved wall her only safety from falling to her death. Nothing separated her from the chasm below and, as she reached the climb’s end, Sansa graciously landed on solid stone. She brushed the dust from her skirts and set to examining her surrounds…and was met with dozens of piercing golden eyes. 

“I don’t recommend screaming,” a voice echoed from the window. “They know only that rats scream and it makes them hungry.” Sansa steadied her heart and squinted in the darkness.

“Lady Lyra?” 

“Didn’t expect to see you up this way,” Lyra responded, the light of the torch outlining her seated frame. At her finger’s tip was the characteristic curl of a beak as her eagle tipped its head to stare at Sansa. 

“I was restless,” Sansa replied and placed the torch in an empty sconce before sitting on the bench beside Lyra, who eyed her inquisitively, but did not object. 

“So are they,” she motioned to the rows of eagles perched in the darkness behind them, their golden eyes reflecting even the faint light of the torch. The shutters rattled as the winds howled and the great eagle rustled its feathers. “But it is far better to be stuck in here than stuck out there,” Lyra went on. “Eagles know that.” 

“I’m not afraid of the storm,” Sansa declared, though her own voice threatened to betray her. 

“It’s wise to fear the storm,” Lyra said, scratching her eagle’s chest, “but foolish to run from it. Run and it will most certainly catch you. Run out into it and you will most certainly drown.”

“Then what do you suggest, Lady Lyra?” Sansa retorted, pulling her cloak tighter as the shutters shook. “Run? Don’t run? You seem to be out of options.” Sansa feared she had said too much as the silence stretched on. Perhaps this was why the Dyruses were seen with such caution. They hardly spoke and their stares could break. For now Lady Lyra’s gaze lie elsewhere, as if she were looking through the shutters to the storm outside. A thin line of light flashed across her face and vanished, lightning seeping through a crack in the frame to scar her face and linger in her dark eyes. 

“Do you know the legend of the thunderbird?” Lyra asked. Sansa shook her head. “Legend says it was a great eagle that ruled the skies, threw lightning with its cries and thunder with its wings. It was master of the storms. They are long gone in Westeros, placed alongside dragons and krakens and direwolves,” Sansa’s jaw clenched, “but we both know that isn’t true.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Sansa’s patience grew thin. Lyra smiled and ran a hand down her eagle’s back. 

“Why did the Targaryens not fear their dragons?” Lyra posed yet another question and Sansa gripped the fabric of her skirt. 

“Because they were idiots.” 

Lyra shot her a sidelong glance.

“Because they rode the dragons,” Sansa corrected with a sigh. “Fire and blood and all that. They claimed to have the blood of the dragon.”

“And a dragon does not fear a dragon,” Lyra said. “A dragon cannot be burned.” Sansa watched as Lyra absentmindedly stroked the tender feathers of the massive eagle, its thick claws digging deep troughs into its stone perch. It could rip her hand off, pluck the fingers one by one like fish scales, and hardly pause for concern, but it didn’t. 

“A dragon is fire,” Lyra’s voice was low as she stared through the crack in the frame. “An eagle is the storm. A direwolf is the winter.” She met Sansa’s gaze and held it. “You cannot fear that which you are and that which you are cannot hurt you.” Sansa’s hand loosened on her skirt and she sat silently alongside the eagle and her lady. 

“What’s its name?” she finally asked, watching as Lyra lovingly plucked a piece of straw from between its claws. 

“ _Grahim_.” Grey sky. They sat side by side by side as the night went and the storm seemed quieter now. Perhaps it was finally passing. 

Lyra finally broke the silence with what appeared as hesitation, “When my brother told me you were with the Boltons, I told him it couldn’t be true. Not Sansa Stark, not the little wolf I met in Winterfell.” Her expression turned downcast and offered a sympathetic glance at Sansa. “I guess I was right.”  
“It doesn’t matter now,” Sansa replied, wrapping her cloak tighter. 

“Still,” Lyra said, “I’m glad you’re back.” Sansa stopped pulling at the loose thread of her sleeve and looked up. For the first time since they had arrived, Lady Lyra’s sharp features had softened. Even the eagle’s predatory gaze had shifted, as if she, too, was relieved to see a northwoman return. 

“May I touch her?” Sansa asked and Lyra seemed to expect her request. She nodded toward the great feathered creature and Sansa inched closer, reaching her arm out from her cloak. Grahim was softer than she had expected, soft like wet-slicked clouds, and the frame beneath the fluff of her feathers was firm. She gently closed her golden eyes and tipped her head to Sansa’s touch.

“She likes you,” Lyra smiled.

“She’s beautiful,” Sansa replied. Conversation soon turned to other things – rumors from Essos, the strange habits of the Free Folk, and how to clean mud from boot lacings. In the end, Sansa had not noticed when the storm passed. They returned the next morning to Winterfell, the Eagle Lords’ loyalty safely in their pockets.


End file.
